


A Very Different Level

by SorrowsFlower



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A Scandal in Belgravia Spoilers, A Scandal in Belgravia ending, Adlock, Baby, Bath Time, Birthday, Brainworm, Children, Christmas, Deductions, Deleted Scenes, Drug Use, F/M, His Last Vow Spoilers, Insane Sherlock, Kissing in the Rain, Memory, Mind Palace, Morphine, Obsession, Perfume, Private Life, Rain, Secret Children, Secret Relationship, Sentimental Sherlock, Sherlock's Violin, Symphony - Freeform, The Hounds of Baskerville Spoilers, The Reichenbach Fall Spoilers, daughter - Freeform, mother - Freeform, sherlene, shirene, violin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-20
Updated: 2017-02-08
Packaged: 2018-08-09 23:37:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 12,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7821664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SorrowsFlower/pseuds/SorrowsFlower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of Adlock drabbles and oneshots. Title taken from Sherlock Holmes' statement to the King of Bohemia in the original Arthur Conan Doyle series: "From what I have seen of the lady, she seems indeed to be on a very different level to your Majesty."</p><p>CHAPTER 7: SYMPHONY FOR THE DEVIL A grit - the smallest imperfection - in his instrument. But in Stradivarian minds such as theirs, an imperfection is what draws the ear and restores the soul. A master can draw the most beautiful sound from such an imperfection.</p><p>CHAPTER 8: CHEMICAL DEFECT "Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side." Much like the drug oozing insidiously through his veins</p><p>CHAPTER 9: RAIN She is beautiful in the rain.</p><p>CHAPTER 10: CRYBABY Like mother, like daughter.</p><p>CHAPTER 11: SENSE MEMORY: It was pure self-gratification, like plunging a syringe into his arm, giving in temporarily to ease the persistent craving for HER - her cunning mind, her soul of zest and steel, even her decadent flesh – living under his skin, invading his mind at the worst times.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. TWICE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because no one had ever quite so effectively shut Sherlock Holmes up.

> _"I would have you right here, on this desk, until you begged for mercy twice."_
> 
>  

An insult, a compliment, a challenge and innuendo all in one statement. How very like her.

 

He was impressed. And struck dumb, as he turned it over in his mind and tried to come up with an appropriate retort.

 

The best he could come up with was: "I've never begged for mercy in my life."

 

A negation of her bold pronouncement. Or at least that's what he'd meant for it to be. Instead, it came out as an answering challenge.

 

Not his best. In fact, rather pathetic, considering his usual standards, but then again, no one had ever quite so effectively shut him up. 

 

She pounced on it, her answer immediate and biting. This time, a promise. 

 

> _"Twice."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I usually have six or seven Sherlock plot bunnies going on in my head at once, and I have yet to finish any of them. I need to unload some of them, delete it from my mind palace as it were.


	2. RUTHLESS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set during A Scandal in Belgravia.
> 
> A fissure in her icy facade. A grit in his instrument. In their cold, ruthless attempts to destroy each other, both The Woman and The Detective find moments of weakness in the other.

She was ruthless.

 

This was her moment. The culmination of everything she had worked for, and here she was.

 

The Woman -- a moon-pale goddess shrouded in black with a blood-red mouth, pressing the dagger of her heels on the throats of the two mortal brothers with a silken, almost tender, cruelty. No histrionics from her, no maniacal laughter or ethereal transformation... merely the glacial wall that no amount of desperate pounding -- because yes, that was desperation, thinly concealed in Mycroft Holmes' pompous voice -- could shatter.

 

Ruthless.

 

Every card Mycroft dealt, she countered with a higher suit. Every thought that entered his cunning mind, she discarded as one she had outplayed months in advance. Every move he attempted to make, he found blocked by a pawn she skillfully, carelessly, _elegantly_ played against him -- his own little brother. Even Sherlock could appreciate the genius of it, the masterpiece that lay in her uncanny mind.

 

Even as she coldly focused her energies on his brother, he knew her cruelty was reserved for him. To Mycroft, she dealt her coldly analytical blows -- she was a general whose strategically planned attacks were finally coming to fruition.

 

To Sherlock, she was Eris with the face of Aphrodite -- destruction cloaked by sentiment. Both brothers were dispensable, of course, once she had what she wanted. But for Sherlock, she had ensured that the punishment would endure -- a mark she left on his psyche when the sting of the riding crop on his cheek faded. A lesson well-learned.

 

But there had been a moment. Just one moment. The tiniest hairline crack in the ice wall. The smallest weak point in her impenetrable armour.

 

 

 

> _"Oh, dear God. Look at the poor_ man _."_

 

That small moment of weakness he had caught, when her voice had broken on the last syllable, her smooth breath stuttering for just a millisecond as she addressed him.

 

Nothing in her cold, dark eyes had yielded. Nothing in her demeanor had changed, if anything, she became more derisive. More scornful. But he knew. More than physiological response, more than the hitch in her pulse, this was her undoing. The biological changes were involuntary, but this weakness was a slip in her control.  _That's all it takes_ , Mycroft's voice echoed in his mind. One moment, and he knew he could -- and for his own pride, _would_ \-- win.

 

The disdain in her voice was apparent, in full display, but he knew this time it was for herself, for succumbing to sentiment. Her defenses rising, purging out her own scorn for herself and directing it toward him.

 

The fissure in the icy facade grew and he could see evidence of sentiment pouring in like water, melting the frost -- the panic in her eyes as he discovered her secret, the increase in her pulse, the dilation of her pupils that nearly swallowed her liquid irises, the way her gaze flitted almost unconsciously to his lips as he moved closer toward her, the way she tried to fortify her walls with stillness and forced calm.

 

But he was ruthless too.

 

And now it was his turn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Watch the scene again, and tell me you don't hear Lara Pulver's voice break on that last syllable. That's when it all goes downhill for her. This is what I love about these two actors: they give me so much to work with.
> 
> Part 2 is Sherlock's turn. I have yet to write it, but it shouldn't take long.


	3. Scent of The Woman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "MY sentiment, Mr. Holmes...? What about YOURS?" How Sherlock Holmes' scarf proved to be his own undoing.
> 
> Set sometime after Baskerville but before Reichenbach. I'd ballpark it in those two months between Moriarty's visit and the child abduction case, if you wanna be specific.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to preface this by saying that this is NOT the Part 2 of my Chapter 2 ficlet RUTHLESS: that little piece was inspired by the actors' (Lara Pulver's and Benedict Cumberbatch's) various acting choices and mannerisms in the episode that really authenticated the story for me. I had been planning on finishing Sherlock's version of that ficlet, but this plot bunny and another I made before it started clamoring for my attention.
> 
> So, I'm apologizing for the messiness of this little drabble folder's timeline, but I never claimed to be an organized writer, I just had to unload these :) Also, I'm banging my head in despair about the absolutely cheesy title, but I promise, it'll make sense when you read it.
> 
> P.S. In this fic, SH and IA did NOT have "a night" in Karachi as BC so charmingly put it. I swear, that man is the biggest Adlock shipper ever. That's why I love him.

"Why did you come back?"

She was sitting on John's armchair, face turned away from him, legs tucked in under her, just like that night by the fireplace -- soft and languid. His back was turned to her, staring out the window, hands clasped behind him -- rigid and unyielding. She was silent, but, despite his calm voice and demeanor, he was unleashing words at her like a torrential flood.

"Surely you realize there is no place in the world more dangerous for you than London? And _Baker Street_ , of all places." He practically sneered the words. "And to think, I had formed a high opinion of your intellect. I thought you were, at the very least, moderately clever, and certainly after Bond Air, excessively so... but this... _this_ was exceedingly foolish -- a term I would not have used to describe you, but yet again, you've proven me wrong. You've undone everything we both worked for in Karachi, all of the precautions we took to make sure my brother and the terrorist cells were not aware of your survival... _why?!"_

She turned slowly toward him, her gaze as proud and unrelenting as the day he first met her. "You know why."

His face half-turned toward her, his features as still as stone. It was a long time before he spoke, and when he did, his voice was cold.

"Ah, yes... You and your sentiment."

This time, something in her gaze shifted and she visibly flinched, but it was too late to take his statement back. Her eyes were just as cold as his when she stood up gracefully from John's chair and crossed the room toward him in three strides.

Before he could do anything else, she had pulled him around to face her and, with a strength that was surprising for her size, pushed him down onto the chair behind the desk. She straddled him, in a move similar to their first meeting in her Belgravia sitting room, except this time he still had his coat and scarf on, and she was clothed in his dressing gown. This time, she made sure that the sharp bones of her knee were digging painfully into the muscle of his thigh. He refused to flinch.

 _"My_ sentiment, Mr. Holmes?" Her voice was low and dangerous, silk over steel. She held him down with her forearms on his shoulders, her ice-blue gaze burning into him. "What about _yours?"_

He held her gaze coldly. "Sentiment is a chemical defect that I have no use for."

"No?" She laughed. There was very little humor in her laughter, and even less in her eyes. Her face was so close to his, he could feel the warmth of her laughing breath over his lips, mixing with the oxygen he needed to breathe.

"What would you call _this_ , then?"

In a quick movement that was as fluid as it was violent, she wrenched his scarf off his neck. The wool scraped against the skin of his neck as she pulled it off him and held the fabric up to her nose. She inhaled deeply, her face half-hidden, his scarf a veil in her hands.

" _Casmir_ , with three drops of _Chanel No. 5_."

A muscle in his jaw twitched, but he refused to give any other reaction.

A small predatory smile graced her cruel lips, and her eyes bore into his own. "You wear it on the inner lining of your scarf, where only you and no one else can smell it. You're careful not to get it on any of your other clothes because John Watson would be able to smell it, and though he probably wouldn't recognize it, he would ask questions. Questions you yourself don't want to ask. Because the answers would betray you, just like they betrayed me."

He read the look of feral determination and ice-cold cruelty in her eyes, and he knew there was no going back. Just as her camera phone was her undoing, this was his.

She took another deep breath, holding his gaze.

"This is _my_ perfume."

He said nothing.

Nothing of how her scent had imprinted itself into his clothes after she had returned them to him in Karachi, and how it had surrounded him as they lay in that cramped bed in Pakistan with their backs to one another, without touching. Her because she was unwilling to give him more power over her than her sentiment had already allowed, and him because his experience with drugs had taught him to stay away from temptation, and _Irene Adler_ was a drug to be avoided at all costs. Except at that point, he had already gone to Pakistan, and staying away was no longer really an option -- hence her presence here, now.

Nothing of the nights after Karachi that he had spent in a wretched state, because every time he inhaled, instead of breathing in the stale, dusty air of 221B, his brain chose to interpret the signals as sandalwood, peach, bergamot, cardamom, jasmine, vanilla, musk, orange blossom and something else he couldn't identify.

Nothing of his failed attempt to purge himself of her persistent scent by compiling a list of perfumes and their ingredients for his website, mentally sorting through them all by process of elimination -- _Victoria's Secret_ , too sweet; _Clinique_ , too irritating; _Casbah Nights_ , too racy and so on.

Nothing of the hours he had spent cooped up in the lab after breaking in without Molly Hooper's knowledge, trying to recreate the formula without success, and so as a last resort, he had discreetly dabbed a few drops of the closest possible combination onto his scarf so that he could have some sort of relief, like trying to inhale secondhand smoke when he was being cut off cold turkey.

She looped the scarf around his neck and tugged as she would a collar -- because, if he was honest with himself, that's what it was. And worse, she knew it.

"I'm not the only one infected with sentiment, Mr. Holmes."

He would never be able to explain why he did it. Perhaps many years later, when her arms wrapped around him from behind while he tended to his bees in isolation, he would be able to put it in words, though he would never find the desire to vocalize it, even for her. Nor would she require it. For once in his life, the _why_ or the _how_ of an action didn't matter. Only the result.

He reached up through the curtain of her hair and trapped her face between both of his hands. She was so small and her bones so deceptively delicate, his fingers spanned from her cheeks to her jawline and her throat. He brought her face down to his, and he could see the telltale drifting of her gaze from his own to his lips.

He moved first.

He had known this was dangerous from the beginning. _She_ was dangerous, not just to his mind and the way she seemed able to manipulate it with hardly any effort, but to his heart, which immediately rejected this new and infinitely more potent drug that had been injected into his system. He had an obsessive and almost self-destructive personality, and when confronted with temptation, whether it was a cigarette, or a seven percent solution, or a fascinating case, he voluntarily surrendered his willpower for the thrill.

Not so with her. At least not in Karachi. Probably because he knew that with Irene Adler, the damage was sure to be considerable and irreversible.

He smiled as he claimed her wicked lips. He was looking forward to it.

He didn't close his eyes and neither did she. It might have been too intimate if she had been any other woman or he another man, but they were not. They were too extraordinary -- two rare brilliant, damaged people that the world around them would never have the capacity to understand -- and the thrill of finding an opponent who was an equal, a mirror, in this world that didn't understand them was too intriguing not to explore.

It would consume him, he knew, the desire to know this woman -- _The_   _Woman_ \-- to unravel the mystery of her, to study her cunning mind whose weakness was the same as his own, to take her apart piece by piece, to discover the elements that made up her composition, that made her uniquely _Her_. An impossible and endlessly tormenting task that he was willing to undertake.

Now, he understood what she meant about _having_ someone : he wanted to _have_ her, all of her -- from her beautiful mind to her decadent flesh, in all possible ways at once. He wanted to immerse himself and all of his senses in her -- the mesmerizing, unfathomable blue of her eyes in his vision, her sharp, sinful taste on his tongue, her damned addictive scent wrapped around him like a second skin. She made him want to fall into the abyss of her, the darkness within her that matched the one inside him, that soothed him in its suffocation, that warmed him rather than chilling him with its coldness.

Funny how he always chose opponents who were determined to make him fall. Moriarty and his insane riddles. The Woman and her sentiment.

She broke away first, when the need for oxygen overpowered the need for each other and she leaned her forehead against his, her eyes closing now that their lips were parted. Her breathing was heavier, and he moved his hand to her wrist to take her pulse. There was no question of its elevation, nor of her pupillary dilation. For her part, she traced the red scratches on his neck where the wool of his scarf had abraded his skin, the exact same spot where her perfume had been most concentrated.

"You were wrong, by the way."

His only response was to raise his eyebrows -- he wasn't sure he could talk at the moment, but she didn't need to know that. A smile appeared on her face, and for all its smugness, it was genuine.

"The formula for my perfume." She bent down and replaced her fingers with her mouth. She nipped at the inflamed skin, her teeth just sharp enough to send an unexpected jolt of arousal straight up his spine and make him suck in a harsh breath. "You got it wrong. You missed one ingredient."

He narrowed his eyes at her, but she didn't elaborate further. Instead she ran her tongue over the bite on his abraded skin, and he shivered despite himself, his hands moving from her face to her hips.

"Tell me."

The words were a demand, but they both knew it was a plea. A defeated confession that she had him stumped, much like that time when he demanded she tell him the passcode to her phone because the great Sherlock Holmes couldn't figure it out himself.

The smile on her face bloomed like a crimson flower, and he appreciated her beauty in victory. Even if it was over him. "Only if you beg."

He grinned up at her, anticipation pooling low in his belly. "Twice?"

She laughed, and this time, her laughter was low and filled with sinful promise. "As many times as I want, Mr. Holmes."

* * *

Two hours later, his throat was sore from begging and they were both lying naked on his bed, sweaty and sated, both physically and mentally. For once, Sherlock Holmes' mind was blissfully blank.

Except for one thing.

He summoned what limited mental faculties he could with the Woman still splayed out on his chest, and reached for his phone, typing out a message to John to delay his return and to procure the last ingredient for his soon-to-be successful experiment.

Across town, John Watson looked at his mobile's screen and frowned. What the bloody hell did Sherlock want with women's perfume? Probably for a new case. He had long since given up trying to figure out his flatmate's crazy thought processes. At least it wasn't a bloody harpoon, like the last time (pun decidedly not intended).

With a long-suffering sigh, John asked the cabbie to take him to Harrod's so he could pick up some _Joy_ on the way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes and his "Woman-sensing nose", as Mark Gatiss described it in the ASiB commentary.
> 
> For those who don't know, Joy by Jean Patou and Chanel No. 5 by Coco Chanel are two of the greatest scents ever made. I've only tried each once, 'cause sadly enough I cannot afford it. Tell you the truth, I haven't actually tried this combination, because I couldn't find Casmir. Also I tried finding Casbah Nights online, to see if it was an actual perfume, but I could not, for the life of me, find the little bugger. All I found was Casbah by Avon. Oh well... The exact combination is revealed in the next drabble.
> 
> This is not exactly how I imagined this scene would go and in fact, I have a number of headcanons on what happens during and after Karachi (this is what happens when you have a long time between episodes, you start combining Sherlock with every other fandom out there -- although I am new to the fandom), but what the hell, my Sherlock muse has a mind of its own. Too many independent-minded characters.


	4. Learn From The Best

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I hear you got engaged... Should I be jealous?"  
> For future reference: keep the Woman away from morphine controls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set during His Last Vow, in the hospital. This is one of several takes I have of this scene.
> 
> Important disclaimer at the end.

Two hours after Janine leaves, he is woken by a warm, soft weight on the wound on his chest. His mind is groggy from the drugs, but he immediately focuses what limited mental faculties he has on it. There's no need to open his eyes, no need to inhale the lightest scent of perfume in the air -- _Casmir_ with precisely three drops of _Chanel No. 5_ and one drop of _Joy_.

He knows who it is. The unmarked rose at the foot of his bed suddenly makes sense.

"Congratulations."

The low voice breathes like sin into his ear and causes a tingle to go down his spine. He is at once thankful and resentful of the fact that the drugs in his system and the wound on his chest have immobilized him and prevented his body from reacting reflexively to her presence.

She shifts and the weight on his chest becomes almost non-existent. He cracks open one heavy eyelid and sees her blurry form perched on the left side of his bed, holding that bloody tabloid rag up to her face.

He doesn't trust his voice at the moment -- either from the drugs or her presence, he's not quite sure -- so he lifts an eyebrow with tremendous effort in what he hopes is a sardonic expression. She laughs quietly, teasing him.

He feels the lightest tug on his IV line as she reaches for the button to control his morphine. He can feel the pain ooze insidiously into his limbs, but he welcomes the awareness that comes with the slow ebb of the drugs. The paper -- if it can be called that -- is carelessly tossed aside, and she leans over him so he can see her face.

God, no matter how many times he sees her face in his mind palace, it is nothing -- _nothing_ \-- compared to the real thing. Every time he sees her, she takes his breath away and makes him breathe in relief at the same time. How does she do that?

"I hear you got engaged."

That playful, evil little smirk is on her crimson mouth again, the one that promises mischief, pain and pleasure, all battling for dominance. The pain wins a small victory this time as her nails rake down slowly over his stomach, five scarlet pinpricks making light and sharp trails from chest to abdomen. "Should I be jealous?"

Without warning, the pain from his wound shoots up in a small, controlled lightning-like burst before easing down again as her other hand plays with the button. It pulls a shocked groan from him and quickens his journey to wakefulness. The monitor shows the increase in his heart rate -- a small stutter, not enough to cause alarm, but enough to make his breath hitch -- and soon enough, she soothes the assault with a not-quite contrite kiss to his earlobe.

 _For future reference : keep the Woman away from morphine controls._ He doesn't know if there is such a thing as 'morphine play', but he wouldn't be surprised if the Woman excelled at it.

He gives her a small glare that loses its effect with his elevated respiratory rate, an increase caused by pain, surprise and unexpected arousal in equal measure. He would curse her right now, but damn it, she does know what he likes.

Having exacted her punishment and proven her point, she leaves the morphine at the right level and places the control beside him. Her left hand shifts from scratching to making soothing circles around the wound on his chest, while the fingers of her right hand settle gently over his pulse despite the fact that his heart rate is there on the monitor for all to see.

An inscrutable expression crosses her face as she looks down at the wound, but it fades quickly as she looks back up at him with that maddening half-smile. "Well...?"

His eye lands on the paper on the floor and catches that ridiculous headline, making him roll his eyes. "Not at all. There was only one way to get to Magnussen, and that was through her. I felt it was the most logical course of action."

She crosses her legs over the edge of his hospital bed, regarding him with an amused expression. "The most logical course of action being to propose to the poor woman via intercom for the sole purpose of gaining access to Magnussen's office?"

The morphine is still making him drowsy, but it wears off enough for him to raise his hand and run his fingertips along the line of one leg from stilletoed heel to just under the hem of her silk skirt. One corner of his mouth lifts as her next inhale becomes just a little deeper than the last. Her sharp blue gaze narrows at him, and he tries his best to look innocent, which is not difficult, given the vulnerable position he is currently in.

"Why do you sound so surprised?" He deadpans, fixing her with his best poker face as his hand moves to her waist. "Didn't you once seduce me just to extort the British government?"

The laugh that bursts from her lips is an unexpectedly genuine sound and it fills the room. It surprises her as much as him. Maybe it's just the morphine talking, but he loves the sound. It's better than all the Bach sonatas in the world. More, it's a testament to how far they have both come since then. The laugh is still on her lips and in her eyes when she leans closer to him.

"Is this your roundabout way of saying you 'learned from the best', Mr. Holmes?"

For the first time, he grins fully and he slides his hand with some effort from her waist to her shoulder blades, bringing her closer still until their faces are millimeters away. "And so the student becomes the Master."

She laughs again, this time the more familiar, mocking laughter of the Dominatrix. Her exhaled laughter becomes his inhale, and he breathes in deep -- he can _almost_ taste her : heady and dark and bittersweet in his mouth and his veins, his own personal morphine.

"I wouldn't be so cocky if I were you, Mr. Holmes... After all, I still have my secrets...."

Her effect on him is so similar to the drug that it takes a while for him to realize that the thick and heady sensation he is feeling is not just from her proximity, but from the painkiller itself. By the time he catches on, she's already turned the control all the way up and he can barely spare the effort to groan at her in frustration before his eyes begin to close.

"... and you'd better stay alive if you want to learn them all."

Just before he succumbs to sleep, he feels her lean down and kiss his left brow, one hand still on the morphine control, the other a warm, soft weight over the wound on his chest.

"Till the next time, Mr. Holmes."

* * *

When he wakes up again, there is a card next to the rose, and he smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because Irene is a bad influence on Sherlock, and I love it. I think he wouldn't have thought to use "human error" if it hadn't been used against him before. Or maybe he would have, but he wouldn't have used it so effectively.
> 
> Just so we're clear: In no way am I endorsing the use of morphine the way it was used in this piece. I'm a writer and I channel my characters when I write, but I'm also a health professional (though pharmacology is not my area of expertise), and I've seen the effects of morphine, it's a dangerous drug with a lot of side effects and highly addictive properties. If you don't need it, don't take it; if you do need it, do NOT take it in any way other than what your physician prescribes. It's not something you go playing around with, just because it's something Sherlock or Irene would do. This is serious stuff.
> 
> I know most Sherlock fans are highly intelligent and this may seem like common sense, but there are other impressionable people out there. 
> 
> That being said, I hope you enjoyed this!


	5. Dinner and a Bath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler get up to in her bathtub.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for a tumblr prompt featuring BC's "private life" comment and Arwel's (Irene's) tub.

It's been precisely one hour, forty three minutes and thirty eight seconds since he showed up at her door with a question and an invitation on his lips.

_"Dinner?"_

Now, they are in her bath, and he's gripping the porcelain edges of her tub, trying to control his body's response to her ministrations. Her fingers are nimble and skillful, unerring and unrelenting, and as they pass over heated skin, he swallows back a groan. He tries to focus on the coldness of the water, which had been warm one hour and forty five minutes before, but now feels almost freezing to his raw nerve endings. It's a deliciously painful contrast, the sort she knows he would usually enjoy -- but even that pales in comparison to what she's doing to him now.

She stares down at him, her face the cold, serene mask of a Woman utterly in command of herself and everything around her, including him.... but only he can see the seams around her mask fraying as she handles his body like a tool. Her eyes are dark and dangerous as they meet his, the liquid irises swallowed almost completely by dilated pupils. And no matter how well she tries to conceal it, he can see the increase in her breathing rate. He grips her wrist -- _to stop her? to take her pulse?_ \-- anything to anchor himself to reality, but her pulse is racing too.

She relieves some of the pressure by withdrawing one hand to trace along his navel, but even this makes his stomach clench and finally releases the groan he had been holding back. _"Woman --"_

A slim finger settles over his lips to shush him, and is quickly replaced by a leather gag and an order. _"Bite down."_

He obeys. She leaves him no choice.

 _"Quite the predicament you're in, Mr. Holmes..."_ Her cool hands resume their exploration of his fevered skin. He struggles to keep his face impassive, but they both know this will be an impossibility soon. He wants to stop her, but doing so would admit weakness and deny him what they both know he needs.

What he came here for.

She pauses for the barest heartbeat when he exhales heavily and fluid begins to leak onto her fingers. _"Are you ready?"_

He meets her eye. _"Yes."_

She leans over him, and it takes Sherlock Holmes tremendous effort not to pass out from the terrific assault on his senses

Pain explodes from his side as a .45 caliber bullet is carefully removed from the wound right under his ribs. He bites down on the leather gag between his teeth, but even that can't completely muffle the pained cry he lets out. He knows it's only superficial, he doesn't have any internal injuries, what he really should worry about is the fever from the infection -- and she's already brought his body temperature down several degrees with the ice bath in her tub.

Still, the pain continues and it does not stop even with all this information.

She presses a cool hand against his side as blood streams from the wound. He focuses on her hand instead of the pain. It keeps him from slipping over the edge of unconsciousness.

As she calmly begins to stitch his skin back together, she turns to him with a small glare. "Next time you get shot while tracking down the rest of Jim Moriarty's web, do try and seek medical attention before going into septic shock."

He manages a lopsided grin even with the pain threatening to split his side. "I did."

Her eyes narrow at him, but a small smile tugs at her lips. "From a medical professional. Not a dominatrix."

He sniffs in disdain, and manages to hold back a groan at the pain as she quickly and efficiently stitches him up. "Boring."

"Well, certainly nobody would ever accuse you of that." She rolls her eyes, but this loses its effect when she leans over and brushes her lips fleetingly over his. "However, for future reference, when I say 'Let's have dinner', let's try to avoid another impromptu surgery in my bathtub."

He smiles and pulls her in for another proper kiss, pain almost forgotten now. "Where's the fun in that?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Irene and I had a good laugh at this. Not sorry at all.


	6. October

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "This was always your endgame, wasn't it...? It was never about Bond Air or Moriarty or even making the British government dance for you. And it certainly wasn't about that outrageous list you gave Mycroft... It was always about HER."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you wanna see what I based Irene on in this fic, I put up the lovely Lara Pulver pic I based it on in my tumblr: http://sorrowsflower.tumblr.com/post/151266824743/the-weather-was-wonderfully-mild-that-afternoon

The weather was wonderfully mild that afternoon, with a breeze that had just the slightest bite to it, just enough to remind everyone in Manhattan that it was autumn. With the sun glinting mildly through the trees whose leaves were bursting into brilliant color, and the sounds of laughter from children of all shapes and sizes enjoying the day, it really was a most picturesque scene in Central Park that afternoon – enough for any passerby to smile on or at least take a moment to enjoy.

Except for one.

The man was sitting on one of the benches lining the playground, his eyes scanning the crowd. He was dressed in black, with a scarf around his neck, though the weather was not nearly cold enough to warrant the scarf nor the thick black coat he was wearing. The dismissive expression he wore made it clear how he felt about the children and their laughter, and this dark expression, along with his dark clothes, gave him the over-all impression of a grim storm cloud waiting to roll in on the beautiful day.

He hated parks.

Specifically parks with playgrounds.

The noise. The parents, shrilly calling for their progeny. The babies crying or bubbling at the mouth in their prams.The uncontrollable toddlers, running to and fro. The children kicking sand in each other’s faces, and the bigger ones pushing the smaller ones into the sandbox when the parents weren’t looking. It brought back certain… _memories_ he would rather have forgotten.

Sherlock Holmes sniffed in disdain as one of the small humans littering the park barreled clumsily along on a bike in front of the bench he was sitting on – boy, around seven years old, clearly his first time on a bicycle without training wheels, only child, being raised by two divorced parents, underachiever in school, mostly because the father tried to explain away his dyslexia as “slowness”, though his teacher might be able to help if his misogynistic father didn’t have a problem with her being young and female.

The frown on the Sherlock’s face deepened and his lip began to curl in irritation as the boy wobbled on his bike and nearly crashed it into the bench before the boy’s father – whose wife had divorced him and recently married another woman, fueling his misogynistic predisposition – grabbed the back of the bike seat and set him upright again. The father gave Sherlock an amicable shrug and a nonchalant apology, but Sherlock only spared him a dismissive grunt and a sharp glare before resuming his scan of the park.

He shifted minutely on the bench, his irritation starting to get the better of him. He was starting to wonder if his deduction was right, or if he was just wasting his time here with all these inconsequential miniature humans.

 _Five minutes._ God, what he wouldn’t give for a cigarette right now.

_Two and a half minutes._

All the way on the other end of the playground, a cab stopped and a familiar figure stepped out.

Immediately, his frown disappeared and his face smoothed itself out to a blank, emotionless mask. He told himself that this was him preparing for another possible confrontation, but that didn’t explain the way the tension on his shoulders eased or why the breath he released held the smallest measure of relief at the sight.

The figure paid the cab driver and walked toward the park, moving at a leisurely pace – nothing to suggest that the person was in a hurry, or in fact doing anything at all other than taking a stroll around the park like the dozens of other New Yorkers and tourists were doing in their immediate area.

Except Sherlock knew better.

The figure never approached the playground. Instead, the person settled comfortably on another bench about a hundred yards away, and barely sparing a vague glance at the rest of the park, pulled out a book and began to read.

Despite the fact that the person’s gaze never focused on him for more than a millisecond, Sherlock knew he had been spotted.

The corners of his lips turned up into a smirk and he stood up, casually doffed his coat and scarf and slipped them under his arm. He kept his pace just as leisurely as the other person’s had been and skirted the edge of the playground, deliberately going the long way round, before coming to a nonchalant stop beside the bench where the reader was sitting.

“Mr. Holmes.”

The Woman didn’t even look up from the book she was reading – a rather unremarkable collection of Shakespeare’s plays. His eyebrows rose.

“Miss Adler.”

A small smile flitted around her lips at the sound of her name. As if to reward him for finding her, she took off her stylish sunglasses and perched them on top of her head, allowing him a look at her face.

She looked different, but still remarkably the same. After Karachi, he had expected her to change her look completely – eye color, weight, or even hair color at the very least. After all, the Woman was the consummate survivor, ready and in fact, more than able, to do anything to preserve herself. Changing her appearance, adapting to a new identity, should be child’s play.

But no, of course, that was the obvious choice.

Hadn’t she herself once told him? Disguise was always a self-portrait. Any disguise she adopted, any persona she took on other than her own, would be seen through in a heartbeat. And not because she wasn’t as good with a disguise as he was, no.

The Woman was too much herself.

Her hair was still the same, albeit a few shades lighter, closer to dark brown than the raven it had been. She wore it in loose, dancing waves down her shoulders and back, in sharp contrast to the severe, intricate knot she had once meticulously kept it in. Surprisingly, it did much to change her appearance, softening the sharp angles of her face and bringing to Sherlock’s mind glimpses of firelight, echoes of a murmured invitation to dinner and the feel of her soft skin under his fingertips as he took her pulse.

The battle mask worn by the dominatrix, carefully fabricated and accentuated by rouge, eyeshadow and crimson lipstick, had morphed into something simpler, but no less mysterious. The symmetry of her face remained the same underneath – the same high forehead, the same elegant brow ridge, the same sharp cheekbones (she really was being hypocritical when she accused his own cheekbones of being capable of cutting), the same sash-thin mouth with its tight philtrum and whip-like vermillion, the same decisively square jaw tapering down to the triangular chin – all the same.

And her eyes were still the same. The same inexplicable shade of grey-green-blue with a coldly brilliant, calculating gaze softened only by its glint of mischief and vivacity …. it still made Sherlock feel as if he were looking into a deceptively clear lake – you jumped in, thinking it was shallow, only to be pulled down into depths you hadn’t guessed, with the water closing in over your head.

She still wore makeup, but this time it was to highlight, rather than to armour, herself. Showing off to reveal the fact that she was actually holding back. As if she were hiding behind a veil rather than a mask. Astoundingly familiar, and yet refreshingly different.

It made her look more… _translucent_. Yes, he liked that word for her. Not transparent, for she would never be that – she would cease to be the Woman if she was. But not opaque, either. Her glacial luminosity kept her untouchable, but the lack of armour made her more accessible… made it seem as if she were a mystery he could solve after all, when they both knew she wasn’t and he would never want her to be.

Even the way she carried herself was different. The predatory dominatrix stride had loosened into a languid, carelessly elegant walk that was still at home in marble foyers or hardwood floors, but was less suited to the dominatrix who catered to the wealthy’s whims and more appropriate for the spoiled, self-indulgent glamorous socialite whose whims were catered to. Less aggressive, more self-entitled… but still utterly in command of any room. A very fine, but distinct line only she would know how to draw.

All in all, the effect of the changes she had made, albeit sparingly, made her virtually unrecognizable to everyone else but him. With a few simple alterations, she had managed to fabricate a disguise that wasn’t a disguise at all, but one that would be sufficient to fool all the bland people around them.

The Woman did not change herself for the world, the world changed for her. Or rather, she made it change for her.

“Should I be insulted you were trying so hard to stand out?” she murmured, casting a quick glance at his trademark coat under his arm. Sherlock took the opportunity to steal a look at the page she was reading and caught a few words: _And all alone to-night we’ll wander through the streets and note the qualities of people._ She turned the page. “Didn’t think I could pick you out of a crowd of Manhattanites?”

He sat down on the bench beside her, casually putting his right sleeve on display, now uncovered by his coat.

“Ah, I see…” she smiled, clearly trying to suppress a laugh. She didn’t succeed, and the soft chuckle that left her mouth made him huff in irritation. “Baby spit-up doesn’t exactly go well with Dolce & Gabbana, does it?”

He grunted his annoyance and tucked the offending sleeve under the coat again. Even Sherlock Holmes was above taking his irritation out on a baby, so he’d had to take revenge on the regurgitating baby’s mother – compulsive cheater, usually careful, but the stress of caring for a baby had made her more lax as of late (though it had clearly not dampened her libido, judging by the hem of her shirt) – by swiping her phone and sending a text to her husband that was clearly meant for one of her illicit lovers.

He leaned back, as if to enjoy the autumn sunshine. She tucked a lock of her behind her ear and crossed her legs in a relaxed manner, her eyes still focused on her book.

For a moment, he wondered how the people – oblivious, hopelessly blind people – around saw them : a man and a woman sitting on the same bench in Central Park, each enjoying the day. The man might have just come by for a small break from Wall Street, the woman might have just been looking for a place to enjoy her book. They don’t know each other, obviously. The man might have just spotted the woman from the other side of the park and thought she was another possible conquest. The man might strike up a conversation, trying out some pickup line he’d used on countless other women; the woman might roll her eyes but might be flattered enough to lift her attention from the book and engage in a conversation. They might leave together, get a cup of coffee, and if the man is lucky, he’ll leave with her number and the promise of dinner.

How laughably mundane.

Thank God he was not that man. Not only was there the utter improbability that Sherlock Holmes would even spare a single brain cell for a pickup line, but he knew the Woman would probably neuter  _that_ man for even daring to open his mouth in her presence. Certainly, there would be slapping involved, at the very least.

It was a testament to how utterly banal the world around them was, that they would ever see The Woman and The Consulting Detective in that way.

While his scrutiny was focused on her – on them – hers was fixed elsewhere. She idly turned another page of her book and he immediately recognized which play she was reading, and why. It only confirmed his theory. He wasn’t fooled by the rapt attention she seemed to be paying to her book, he had no doubt she was aware of every person in the park, every new face that appeared in the playground.

She had chosen a good spot.They were far enough that they could be inconspicuous, yet close enough for them to observe the area.

He knew the exact moment she spotted what she was looking for.

She drew forward very slightly, uncrossing her legs, and her posture straightened an almost imperceptible inch. Her short glances away from her book would look to everyone else as if she was tiring of its content and seeking a diversion, but Sherlock knew where her gaze really went. He’d seen it too.

“This was always your endgame, wasn’t it?”

She stiffened at the sound of his voice, as she realized that he’d seen the object of her attention as well. She didn’t insult either of them by pretending she didn’t know what he meant. After all, he had found her here. Had been _waiting_ for her here. Either he had been following her and learned her routine (though doubtful, as she had taken great care not to follow a pattern), or he had deduced her reason for being in this particular place at this particular time.

Either way, he knew.

“It was never about Bond Air… or Moriarty… or even making the British government dance for you.” He followed her line of sight, and for a moment, their pretense dropped. No man about to hit on a woman, no woman reading a book. Both of them looked across the park, their stares blatant – hers hungry and unrelenting, his thoughtful and observant.

“It certainly wasn’t about that outrageous list you gave Mycroft.” He huffed a short laugh. “That was just a cover – a counter-measure so ostentatious and ridiculous it threw everyone off track, including me.”

Her attention shifted to him momentarily, and she cast him a sidelong glance accompanied by a small, teasing smile. “Sherlock Holmes, admitting to being ‘thrown off track’? Is the world ending?”

He glared at her from the corner of his eye before resuming his observation. “I must admit, you played it very well. Almost fooled me. For a little while at least.”

“Oh, please… You had absolutely no idea. Why else would it take you so long to find me after Karachi?” She rolled her eyes, her stance relaxing. She marked the page on her book and set it down, dropping the pretense of reading entirely. She leaned back and crossed her legs again, her gaze focused on the scene before her. “And why would you? Know, I mean.This was years ago, as you can clearly see. Long before all of _that_. And certainly none of _your_ business.”

He ignored her last words and went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “It was never about any of _that_ …. It was always about _her_.”

For a moment – just one small moment – Sherlock Holmes had the incredibly rare opportunity of seeing The Woman’s mask drop completely. No “battle dress”, no self-portrait in disguise, no artifice whatsoever. What he was seeing was the Irene Adler that lived deep within her still – the core beneath the crust and mantle of the Earth she had fabricated around herself. The girl she was before she became the Woman, in all her vulnerability. More vulnerable than she would ever be in Karachi with a sword at the back of her neck.

He could see her now, in this moment, as what she must have been then. The frightened and desperate twenty-two year old girl who had no one to turn to in the darkest moment of her life. He could see the utter anguish in her eyes, the fire that had burned her from the inside – the pain she would later inflict on everyone turned against her a million times worse.

It would be the closest he would ever come to knowing The Woman, to solving the inexplicable mystery that was Her.

“She had a different name once.”

He nodded and looked down at the book she had been reading, marked at the play she had deliberately chosen. The clue she had given him.

“Selene.”

She smiled, and the moment passed.

They looked out at the playground, at the young girl walking across the park with her mother – ten years old, turning eleven today; obviously having just been to a party thrown in her honor, judging by her hairstyle; clearly athletic, played football (or what the Americans blandly called “soccer”) judging by her knees; being raised in a single parent household by her recently-widowed mother; intelligent, no doubt about it (as if there ever would be, given the DNA from the maternal side), clearly already passing her adoptive mother’s intellectual capabilities; an honor roll student, but had a propensity for trouble, which had gotten her sent to detention several times, at least once for talking back to a teacher (again, genetics); confident, almost imperious, a natural leader.

Briefly, he wondered if he could have made half of those deductions if he didn’t know who her real mother was. He probably could, but there was no denying that he was biased – he already found the girl more tolerable than the other little aliens scampering around the park.

The girl’s name wasn’t on the file he had retrieved from the records the Woman had been trying to get access to. He had to admit, he thought it was clever of her trying to hide her agenda among the “requests” she had asked of Mycroft. Her plan made more sense to him now. It would have been close to impossible to get this information without aid from the British government himself. Sherlock would feel bitter about this, but it had already been difficult enough for him to get the girl’s location and date of birth, and he was the great Sherlock Holmes.

They’d covered their tracks well, most definitely with Mycroft’s help. Though if Mycroft had known who the girl’s mother would become, he probably would have thought twice before collaborating with the girl’s father to cover up her parentage.

“She is the one good thing I’ve ever done in my life…” Then she smiled ruefully. “But let’s be honest, I would have made a terrible mother.”

He turned to her. Her tone was light, almost casual, but he heard the undercurrent of pain, longing and sadness in her voice. The closest the Woman would ever come to expressing regret for the daughter who had been taken away from her.

“It doesn’t take the pain away, though, does it?”

She looked away from the girl. “No.”

And just like that, the mask slipped back on. She dressed herself in her self-portrait once more, and turned to him with her familiar half-smile. “Well, Mr. Holmes, it would be a shame to waste such a lovely day. Shall we go?”

He looked at her for a long moment. He wanted to say something, anything to acknowledge what she had just shared with him… but then, that was for other people to consider, for people like John Watson who would lend a sympathetic ear. They both knew he couldn’t give her that, and neither did she want it.

With an answering smile, he stood and donned his coat, putting the collar up. It made her smile, and that was the best he could hope for. “Dinner?”

“I’d rather have a drink.” She picked up her book and slid the marker out from the page she had been reading. It was his hotel key card – _how the bloody hell had she managed to swipe that from his pocket?_ “The King Cole bar? I’m not really a pumpkin spiced latte kind of girl.”

He shook his head and took the key card from her with a small glare. “No, you’re not.”

Just before they left the playground, they both turned back to the girl across the park and smiled, her with a tinge of sadness, him with thoughtful consideration. Maybe – just maybe – children weren’t so bad, after all.

But he still hated parks.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by a certain Lara Pulver pic, an autumn photo, and that line “I really hope you don’t have a baby in there”. Yeah, I know, it’s a mess. I love kids and I think Sherlock would like kids, but he would only like kids who are the offspring of people he approves of. The rest he couldn’t care less about.
> 
> I'd love to hear your thoughts.  
> Kudos if you can spot the origin of the name Irene gave her daughter. No, it’s not from Underworld. Let me know when you get it! I love putting little clues in the story.


	7. Symphony for the Devil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of RUTHLESS. A fissure in her icy facade. A grit in his instrument. In their cold, ruthless attempts to destroy each other, both The Woman and The Detective find moments of weakness in the other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who figured out the clues in my last piece, good on you! For those who didn't, Irene named her daughter 'Selene', because that was the name of Cleopatra's daughter (Irene was reading the Shakespearean play, 'Antony and Cleopatra' in the ficlet). I always thought Irene would relate to another intelligent, strong-willed, sexually-confident woman who refused to be submissive to men, besides, Cleopatra had her share of ups and downs but she managed to turn the situation to her advantage (well, except for her death), something Irene can also relate to.
> 
> FINALLY managed to write this one. Writer's block is hell, as I'm sure everyone here knows.

He is ruthless.

 

She knows the exact moment he wins. His sharp gaze and brilliant mind miss nothing, and he has seen The Woman's weakness, when no one else ever has -- not even herself. 

 

She has painted her self-portrait so artfully and masterfully that it became a living thing before she ever knew to stop it -- the infatuation with Sherlock Holmes that she has cloaked herself with to hide her true purpose has become more than a mantle to further her goal, it has etched itself into her skin like a permanent tattoo.

 

But she is The Woman. She knows how to use her weakness to her advantage -- she had merely played into it, and her dilated pupils and elevated pulse had added authenticity to her performance and truth to the lie.

 

Except he is too much like her. They both see far too clearly what others cannot -- she knows the deepest desires of men and women, he deduces the secrets these people hide. And just as she knows what _he_ likes, he has deduced _her_ secret.

 

She sees the cold glint of triumph and assurance in his dispassionate gaze. Feels his knife-sharp words find their purchase in her chest as his hand closes around her wrist and coldly takes her pulse. And she hates herself because her eyes drift to his lips against her will, and she holds her breath as he leans close.

 

Ruthless.

 

He moves away and reaches for her camera phone on the table. Her life -- her _heart_ , as he correctly deduces, containing every secret she has ever played for and won, every fortress she has painstakingly erected to safeguard herself -- in his musician's hands.

 

And he plays it so well...

 

There is no hint of emotion in his voice. He speaks as if they are merely having a conversation over tea, and if there is a note of condescension in his voice, it is well-deserved. She would admire his cold, emotionless deduction if it had not been aimed at her destruction. There is nothing in his words or his dismissive demeanor that she can hold onto, that she can use. He treats her as if she is just one of the many criminals whose schemes he has deduced, just another dragon he has slain -- she has wreaked havoc, provided a distraction, but ultimately she falls at his hand. He treats her as if she is _ordinary_. 

 

Just another instrument that he can bend to the will of his extraordinary mind. And she finds, to her dismay, that this is worse than his deduction. Each stab of his fingers is like a note played into the masterpiece he has built upon the destruction of hers.

 

  
_"I've always assumed that love is a dangerous disadvantage..."_ At the cursed word -- that traitorous word that has caused her downfall, _love_ \-- he stops and his lip curls in anger and disdain. _"Thank you for the final proof."_

 

For the first time, she hears an emotion enter his voice -- a sneer, not one of condescension, but one flavored with something akin to hatred as he stabs yet another damning letter onto her phone. And to The Woman, it sounds like a discordant note. A grit -- the smallest imperfection -- in his instrument. But in Stradivarian minds such as theirs, an imperfection is what draws the ear and restores the soul. A master can draw the most beautiful sound from such an imperfection. 

 

And she is The Woman. If she can draw pleasure out of pain, she can draw sentiment out of apathy or even hatred. This grit in his instrument -- this discordant note from the cold, ominous four-note symphony he is conducting on her most prized possession -- restores The Woman. It gives her the strength to shed her pride and her artifice, and take his wrist as he took hers. 

 

She does not take his pulse. She does not need to, she hears all she needs in his voice.

 

_"Everything I said, it's not real... I was just playing the game."_

 

And when she looks him, her face reveals all. She tells him the truth, because she knows he will understand, and that discordant note tells her there is still hope.

 

_"I know."_

 

He does understand, and for a moment, his voice grows softer, almost sympathetic, because he does know -- the utter boredom and banality of the world around them, the need for something beyond the dreadful normalcy of everyone else, _craving the distraction of The Game_. He knows, and the notes he plays become nearly melodic... and hope flickers in her chest.

 

But this is not how they play The Game. 

 

They are not lovers in this tableau. She is the Enemy in this chessboard played out in the real world. He has no sympathy for the devil, and as he rubs salt into the wound by showing her the unlocked phone, she feels the hope die within her. The first and only tear she will shed that night falls, and she knows she has lost. 

 

_"This is just losing."_

 

She begs. It galls her, and she nearly vomits the words out, but she begs. Because she has heard that discordant note, and if it does not save her now, then at least, she will use it to force him to acknowledge that she is _not_ ordinary. That she is not just another closed case. That she is, and always will be, The Woman Who Beat Him.

 

But he gives her nothing.

 

For the first time in her life, The Woman loses.

 

Months later, The Woman kneels on a hard, dirt floor in Pakistan. She has long since given up the idea of escape, and if life is no longer an option, then she will face this inevitability the way she has faced everything else, with head held high and an adamant refusal to bow to anyone else, even Death. She will not scratch or claw, and most of all. she will not beg. She has begged only once in her life -- once was enough for The Woman -- and that was to the only person who could ever understand her. To the only person she would ever deem worthy of such an act. And he is not on hand.

 

She sends out one last message -- not an accusation or a plea, just the last words Irene Adler would ever say to another human being -- and hears a familiar moan through the darkness. 

 

She hears that discordant note again, this time, in a whispered command to _run_.

 

And The Woman smiles. She has won.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from that Rolling Stones song "Sympathy for the Devil", not one of my favorites from the Stones, but it seemed appropriate. Also, the Stradivarian imperfections I was talking about was taken from an article about the Stradivarius violins' imperfections being the key to producing their coveted sounds, and I thought, yeah, I can work with that.
> 
> Please tell me your thoughts, I'd love to hear them!


	8. CHEMICAL DEFECT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side." Much like the drug oozing insidiously through his veins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, of course, I had to write poetry with Sherlock high. For an Adlocktober prompt:  
> http://adlocktober.tumblr.com/post/152319586248/visualsgifs-im-sure-that-sounded-different-in
> 
> Inspired by the gif posted by dancing-at-the-funeralparty

He sees her underwater

 

Where gravity has no effect, and she becomes

 

Weightless, her unbound hair like an ink blot

 

Spreading, viscous, tainting the water like the drug

 

Oozing insidiously through his veins

 

And he joins her, happily drowns himself

 

 

 

He sees her through the mist

 

That clouds everything else

 

All the insipid humans, the inconsequential

 

Mundanity of the world around them

 

Threatens to obscure her, but even the soporific thrall of the drug

 

Cannot conceal The Woman.

 

And the acrid taste of cigarette smoke and secrets

 

In the air, accompanies her like a spectral handmaiden

 

She beckons, hand to her lips

 

And he follows

 

 

 

Before he remembers

 

She is not there...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And of course, I threw all the rules of poetry out the window. This is why I rarely venture into poetry.
> 
> Please be kind and let me know what you think :)


	9. Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She is beautiful in the rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just realized I haven't updated this thing in a while, so I'm doing quick uploads. If you see me hanging around on Tumblr, you've probable already read these, but feel free to read again. And most definitely, feel free to tell me what you think. Feedback is always welcome :D

She is beautiful in the rain.

 

It’s a scene straight from one of those mind-numbingly boring romantic films John Watson watches with his girlfriends, where the male and female lead get caught in the rain and instead of seeking shelter like practical adults, the two laugh and dance, and eventually end up kissing in the downpour.

 

Usually, by the time the movie gets to that point, Sherlock is begging John to shoot him in the head, and John is complaining that he didn’t have to come along on his date anyway.

 

But she is beautiful in the rain, and as she walks to the shelter of the arch to avoid getting her Versace dress wet, he stops following her for a second to look at the beads of water that are starting to accumulate in her unbound hair. From a certain angle, the water reflects the light from the trees and creates a halo in the blackness of her hair, and she is _illuminated_ , like a… like… like the Van Buren supernova.

 

The idea makes him laugh, and she slows her pace a little just as the rain starts coming down faster and more persistently. She tips her head at him curiously, but she doesn’t stop walking. 

 

She’s almost at the arch now, and she doesn’t want to get her dress soaked, but she is beautiful in the rain, and her hair, which had been dancing around her shoulders when she walked, is now clinging to her neck and shoulders, each dark curl and wave a pleasing contrast to the paleness of her skin.

 

He rarely initiates physical contact between them, because he knows he always has to control himself around her – physically, mentally and emotionally. And touching her feels so much like giving in, to all three. He already gives in to her when _she_ touches him, initiating contact himself feels too much like walking willfully, and with all knowledge, into a trap.

 

But he does it now, because she is beautiful in the rain, and the lights from the trees are reflected in her eyes, and she looks deceptively soft in the warm, golden light. Her wrist is slick under his hand from the rain, but he takes hold anyway, and his fingers unerringly find her pulse. Regular. Calm. No skipping or elevation.

 

But she stops walking toward the arch and turns to face him, her expression surprised and expectant. He catches up to her and steps closer until they’re toe-to-toe. He lifts a hand and smooths the hair away from her face. 

 

Now that he has her, he’s unsure. He’s unused to this sort of thing, hell, standing in the rain with a Woman is so removed from his realm of experience, this whole ridiculous tableau seems almost surreal. But she is beautiful in the rain, and she just looks at him, decoding his mind with hers without words. He wants to… he doesn’t know… he wants…

 

She smiles and makes the decision for him, pulling his lips down to hers, and she tastes like the rain, when rain shouldn’t even have a taste, but that flavour is there on her tongue anyway. And he _likes_ it. 

 

The thought occurs to him that this is exactly what those utterly ordinary people in those utterly ordinary movies ended up doing. But he can’t bring himself to care because he is drinking the rain from her sinful mouth and for him, this is something that is absolutely _not_ ordinary.

 

When she pulls away, she gives him an amused smile but she leads him toward the shelter of the arch. “You owe me a new dress.”

 

And Sherlock Holmes smiles back and follows, because The Woman is beautiful in the rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t think I’ve written so much Adlock fluff in my life. It’s so frickin’ fluffy, I feel like a marshmallow. I know it’s a little OOC, but I like writing Sherlock a little child-like sometimes.


	10. Crybaby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like mother, like daughter. Sherlock suffers the pitfalls of "shared custody".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn’t expecting this, so it’s a bit of a mess. I usually do Nero, but apparently I will also do my girl version of Nero (Geneva, or Neva for short; Oh God, I’m getting so corny).

Sherlock started seeing the many disadvantages of “shared custody”, when the child came back to Baker Street from whichever country Irene was currently wreaking havoc on, with more and more tricks up her sleeve. 

 

His least favorite was the on-cue crying that the child had mastered whenever she didn’t get her way, whether it was being banned from crime scenes or not getting more biscuits from Mrs. Hudson. As extensive as his knowledge of anatomy was, Sherlock would never understand where the child kept her inexhaustible reserve of tears, or how such small lungs could produce such endless, cacophonous wailing.

 

What was worse was that nothing in Baker Street seemed able to stop these tearful interludes, except surrender.

 

Mrs. Hudson would coo and cluck and pinch those chubby little cheeks, before fetching more biscuits. John would look at that tear-streaked little face and relent, and the little girl would be riding in the back of Lestrade’s car playing with the walkie-talkies faster than Sherlock could say “221B”. 

 

He tried talking to her like an adult, but whenever she sensed that her command of the situation was slipping and that he was taking the rational way out, she would pout her lip and widen her blue eyes – _so like her mother’s_ – and put her arms around him, burrowing her little face into his shoulder. Nothing could unlatch her then, and he would be forced to take her along with him anyway, seething (and admittedly a little impressed) at the fact that he had been outsmarted by a three-year-old.

 

Nothing Sherlock said could control her, and he had no idea how to enforce discipline on a child : he was barely equipped to take care of himself, much less a little girl. This was why they had come up with this solution to begin with.

 

The most recent crying episode had led to Molly letting the child into the lab, where thirty minutes in, she had caused a minor fire. Sherlock had then delivered the crying three-year-old to their meeting place, where The Woman was waiting.

 

The moment the girl saw Irene, the deafening wails stopped and the tears evaporated as quickly as they had come. The child let out a squeal of delight and reached out her chubby arms to Irene. “Mama!”

 

As Sherlock gaped in astonishment, the child went into Irene’s arms without a single sob or complaint. All evidence of the recent crying jag was gone as the child curled around Irene’s shoulder with a soft, contented mewing sound.

 

Irene, correctly guessing the reason behind his stupefaction, gave him an amused smile. “She’s my daughter, Mr. Holmes. What did you expect?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on this gif: http://sorrowsflower.tumblr.com/post/152227960658/sherlock-started-seeing-the-many-disadvantages


	11. Sense Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was pure self-gratification, like plunging a syringe into his arm, giving in temporarily to ease the persistent craving for HER -– her cunning, brilliant mind, her sharp, acerbic wit, her soul of zest and steel, even her decadent flesh – living under his skin, invading his mind at the most inopportune times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dammit, brain: Why give me eight Adlock plot bunnies simultaneously if you're not gonna help me write them???? Fucking writer's block.

His brain was never stagnant, never peaceful. It was a glorious piece of machinery, perpetual motion perfected. Most of the time he appreciated the constant whirring of the clockwork, because it was a welcome reprieve from his thoughts of _her_ …

 

But there were times, like now, when she was far too present in her absence and his impeccable memory turned against him.

 

It was pure self-gratification, like plunging a syringe into his arm, giving in temporarily to ease the persistent craving for _her_  -– her cunning, brilliant mind, her sharp, acerbic wit, her soul of zest and steel, even her decadent flesh – living under his skin, invading his mind at the most inopportune times.

 

All it took was his permission, a slight lowering of his guard, a small slip in his control, and he was flooded with memories of her.

 

The smell of her perfume, which had long faded from the inner lining of his Belstaff coat, had somehow managed to imprint itself into his skin after five days in Karachi, and now, months later, he would swear he could still breathe it in.

 

An illusion of the mind, of course, he knew this logically: a sense memory so acute, his brain still chose to present it in the strongest way possible, through the repetitive stimulation of the sense organs. His nostrils flared, and instead of the stale, dusty air of 221B, his brain chose to interpret the signals as sandalwood, peach, bergamot, cardamom, vanilla, jasmine, lily of the valley, cinnamon, musk, orange blossom and something else he couldn’t identify. 

 

Her perfume – which, he was irritated to discover as he was trying to compile his list of perfumes for his website (a failed attempt to purge himself of the persistent scent) – was a mixture of more than one brand, and try as he might, he could never fully recreate it with any one particular formula, and so he had discreetly dabbed a couple of drops of the closest possible combination into the inner lining of his scarf where only he and no one else could smell it.

 

And her mouth. God, _her mouth_ … He cursed and blessed that mouth, whose brilliant, cutting words resided in that wicked tongue that could cut the most powerful man in half with its genius, both verbal and physical. Her open mouth was like a blood red chalice he could drink the sharpest, most intoxicating wine from. He could still feel the vibrations of the feral, self-satisfied laugh that rose from the sweetest, deepest recesses of her sinful mouth as he drank deeply of her dark radiance.

 

The feel of her fingers tracing over his shoulders and back, soft, curious and languid, and how that had felt almost contrary to her cruel nature – before she dug her nails into his hips, deep enough to almost draw blood and make him hiss in pain, and he had laughed into her mouth, because that was so much more _Her_ and to be honest, much more him, too.

 

The vision of her coming apart under him, around him – the Woman trembling, crying, gasping wordless, desperate confessions into his skin that no one else would ever hear but him, violently wresting his own orgasm from him the way she managed to force _sentiment_ out of him when no one else ever had. And when he drew back just enough to see her face, that look in her eye – one that spoke of both wonder and victory – matched the one in his.

 

_“Out of my head, I am busy!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thus proving why I should never watch Fleming and ASiB at the same time. I wish I could write better. I really do.
> 
> As usual, please tell me your thoughts and constructive criticism :D


	12. Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's Christmas."  
> "Christmas was a week ago."  
> "No, it wasn't." For a moment, he watched them both. "It's Christmas."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I let this little collection slide for so long. It's all on tumblr, and I always forget to put it in here.  
> This was made and is set pre-season 4

Christmas had never been Sherlock’s favorite time of the year. Growing up with a brother like Mycroft and parents as intolerable as theirs made for endless, horrifically boring Christmas dinners which were torturous affairs for everyone but their mother, who insisted on all but glueing her husband and sons to a seat on the table for a civilized family meal. 

As an overcompensation of sorts, he had taken to treating Christmas as just another perfectly ordinary day. Things changed slightly to accommodate Mrs. Hudson, then John, but all in all, Sherlock viewed Christmas as an occasion that warranted no celebration or acknowledgment.

So the first time he had woken up on midnight of Christmas Eve to the sound of his bathroom window opening, the last thing he expected to see in the meager living room of the SRO he was renting while hiding from Moriarty’s network was The Woman. Not that her appearance in itself warranted any celebration or acknowledgement (or so he told himself), but he had to admit, it was a surprise. 

She was dressed in one of his shirts – what was her fascination with his clothes, anyway? – and sitting on the worn couch, her knees drawn up to her chest. Sitting on the table in front of her was one of the candles he had been saving for an experiment under the sink. She barely looked up at him when he entered the room, instead she addressed the candle’s flickering light.

“It’s Christmas.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “I’m aware.”

She still didn’t look at him. She seemed mesmerized by the candle’s flame. “I died for the first time last year. Remember?”

Remember? How could he forget?

When he woke up on Christmas Day, she was gone. He would think it was a dream, some kind of hallucination his half-drugged brain had created, except… except the candle was burnt down to a small waxy stub, and his shirt and his sheets smelled of _Her_.

And then there was nothing.

No sign of her, no news of her whereabouts. He didn’t actively seek her out, because he had no reason to, and also for fear of what would happen if he were to do so. What could they say to each other that wouldn’t make the situation worse between them?

He did keep an ear out for whispers from Moriarty’s slowly dwindling network… any rumours of a Woman arising from the bottomless pit that was the criminal underworld. 

But there was nothing.

Twelve months later, in a hotel in Montenegro – exactly a week before he had to leave for Serbia, and a month before his return to London – his window opened again.

This time, she wasn’t alone. 

The infant in her arms stirred and opened its blue eyes, which were the exact replica of his own.

“It’s Christmas,” she said, by way of explanation. And nothing else was said for the remainder of the night.

He held the baby – _his_ baby, his brain automatically supplied, even if he was still having trouble processing it – once. Only once, while its mother was asleep. 

It was tiny… so tiny… and fragile. Why were human beings so easy to break? There were so many things that could break this impossibly tiny thing… Himself, included.

He wasn’t surprised to find both Woman and infant missing the next day.

It was for the best, he told himself as he eased awkwardly back into his old life in London. He could barely take care of himself, much less an infant. Such a thing would only weigh him down, would be another vulnerability. 

He didn’t know what had made the Woman bring it to term and actually keep it. Sentiment, perhaps… a chemical defect that had the audacity to grow into an actual human being.

Though he would admit, he did think about it sometimes. 

When the Woman appeared in his mind palace, she was still as unspoiled as ever… but this time, she would sometimes be accompanied by a baby’s thin cry, or the smell of the infant’s soft head trailing after her perfume.

Three weeks before Christmas, he and John passed by a certain store, and he spied it. 

He didn’t know what possessed him, but he returned to the shop later without his friend, made sure it was appropriate, and brought it home. His illicit purchase was hidden in 221C where he was sure neither John nor Mary would find it.

When the window opened this time, there was a bassinet waiting in the living room of 221B. And the Woman smiled at him knowingly before placing the sleeping baby – who was no longer an infant, but a year-old Child; no longer an _it_ but another  _she_ – inside.

He shrugged. “It’s Christmas.”

Christmas Day found the bassinet empty except for the blanket the Child had been wrapped in. The soft, clearly expensive material carried the scent of the Woman’s perfume and strawberry-scented baby shampoo.

The bassinet would later make its way to the pile of baby shower gifts for Mary after he had deduced her pregnancy, but the blanket remained in his possession.

Mary… whose bullet had nearly killed him.

There was a rose at the foot of his hospital bed when he awoke, but there were no unexpected-yet-expected visitors the next Christmas.

This Christmas, he found himself standing beside his best friend with Magnussen’s lifeless body at his feet and his hands in the air, having just done what he had sworn he would never, _ever_ do.

“Jesus, Sherlock…!”

“Give my love to Mary,” He turned to John. “… She’s safe now.”

Which _she_ had he been referring to – Mary? The Woman? Or the Child? Did he even know…?

But the moment Magnussen had detected the scent of the Woman on his hand, he had known. From that moment on, he’d known exactly what had to be done.

And if it led to his exile or his certain death… well, wasn’t that a small price to pay?

He knelt on the floor and thought of John and Mary, who were safe now from the threat that had been Magnussen. He thought of The Woman, wherever she was, whose death would remain permanent in the eyes of the world. He thought of the Child, whose existence would remain a secret. She whom he had never known, had only held once – an experience that would never be repeated again.

_“Oh, Sherlock… what have you done…?”_

…

_The game is never over, John  
_

…

_Did you miss me?_

…

_Sherlock, promise me?_

…

_Moriarty is dead. No question… more importantly, I know exactly what he’s going to do next…_

…

It was New Year’s Eve. Exactly a week after Magnussen’s murder. Three days after his overdose on the plane.

The book had been waiting on the mantelpiece for exactly a week, but the window remained resolutely shut.

He had been doing his best to hide the residual effects of the overdose from John and Mary, and he had been doing a good job of it. Good enough that he had been allowed his first moment of privacy since the plane, while the good doctor tended to his pregnant wife.

But in his solitude, there was no denying that the effects of the drugs still lingered, and it was this residual toxicity that made him think he imagined the small, high laugh from the living room of 221B.

But when the laugh – a child’s laugh, he now registered – was followed by a familiar voice, he shot up immediately out of bed and lurched into the living room.

The Woman was sitting on John’s chair in front of the fire, with the Child in her lap. The Child was reading the book he had left for her, and she was pointing out something in the book for her mother to see.

He released the breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding for a whole week.

The Woman looked up at the sound of his shaky exhale. They looked at each other silently for a long time.

“It’s Christmas.”

His voice was hoarse from disuse and it rasped out of his throat with unexpected relief and anguish at the same time. The dim light softened the Woman’s features and reflected the unexpected moisture in her eyes. It cast a soft light on the Child sitting quietly in her lap.

“Christmas was a week ago.”

Her words were meant to be teasing – she loved to be contrary– but her voice was quiet. The Child stirred, her blue gaze moving from her mother to this stranger she only saw once a year.

“No, it wasn’t.” He dragged himself onto his chair opposite her. For a moment, he watched them both. Then he smiled, and it coaxed one out of her as well when she realized what he meant.

“It’s Christmas.”

  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, I shouldn’t be allowed to write fluff at 1AM.
> 
> I adore Nero, but I love girl Nero as well. This has an accompanying manip I made here: http://sorrowsflower.tumblr.com/post/154986543903/sorrowsflower-christmas-christmas-had-never


	13. Of Birthdays and Brainworms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wasn’t this familiar? Him standing before yet another safe, trying to deduce a code with the threat of death looming over him. And worse, the cause was STILL the same Woman. 
> 
> Christ, this must be what insanity was like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish I was better at titles and summaries. I really do.

It took him three days.

Three days after John had returned Irene Adler’s file to Mycroft, leaving Sherlock with a stripped phone locked securely in a drawer.

Considering the Woman in question, three days was actually pretty good, in the sense of him holding out. 

Considering his former level of self-discipline and control over his mental faculties, three days was appalling.

But something she had said casually the last time they had seen each other, and the answering question it had brought up lingered in the back of his mind. He’d been doing well – up until John had shown up with the first test of their cover-up, he hadn’t even thought about it. 

He was pleased that the cover-up was an obvious success – neither John nor Mycroft had any idea of the Woman’s continued existence, and he did get her phone back.

But John had given Sherlock a glimpse of her file and had unwittingly brought the question to the front of the detective’s mind yet again.

It wasn’t even important then, and certainly not important enough to risk her safety now, but that little question had wormed its way into his brain and made its home there.

Now, here he was, three days later.

He hadn’t bothered to check the MI5 computer archives. Knowing Mycroft and the failure and embarrassment that Irene Adler had caused him, there was no way he would allow any other copy of that dossier to exist for politically shrewd eyes to see and potentially use, save for the file he would surely keep under lock and key, figuratively speaking.

Literally speaking, it was in Mycroft’s vault, the code to which he had been trying to figure out for the last hour and a half. Bloody stupid thing wouldn’t open without it, and if he put the wrong code in, it would trigger an alarm that would either have half the Scotland Yard on him in three minutes, or fill the antechamber with gas that would kill him in 2.35 seconds. Knowing his brother, probably the latter.

Wasn’t this familiar? Him standing before yet another safe, trying to deduce a code with the threat of death looming over him. And worse, the cause was _still_ the same Woman. 

Christ, this must be what insanity was like.

Fifteen minutes and a mental run-through of another set of obscure chemical formulas and complex algebraic equations later, the door to Mycroft’s vault whispered open for him. 

He grinned – Mycroft was getting slow – and made a beeline for the file cabinet adjacent to the door (Mycroft did not keep his files chronologically or alphabetically, but to a system they were both familiar with), and pulled out the Woman’s file.

He skipped over the “information” Mycroft’s men had managed to collect on her. None of it was likely to be useful or factual, given the Woman involved. Besides, it was embarrassingly easy to fool Mycroft’s men. His assistant may have been more difficult, but Mycroft himself was a different animal entirely.

His eye fixated on one bit of information and one corner of his mouth lifted. _Yes!_

Finally! Some _real_ information.

He made sure that he had left no trace of his presence for Mycroft Holmes to deduce and closed the vault door shut behind him.

Three months later, the Woman opened the door to her Parisian hotel room and found a single red rose on her pillow with an unsigned note, bearing two words: 

“Happy Birthday.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My headcanon is that Sherlock got a brainworm and went insane trying to find out when Irene’s birthday was. Also, my headcanon for the origin of the red rose in Sherlock’s hospital room.


End file.
